Born in Ashes
by SparksandFlames
Summary: To save her friend, Ivy Mellark will try something only one person has ever tried before, and he died because of it.  She discovers that sometimes just because your not in the arena doesn't mean you aren't playing a game of life and death.
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer: Nope not my story, not my characters they all belong to Suzanne Collins**

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><p>I look over my shoulder, checking to see if the coast is clear. Using the computer at our house isn't against the rules. My parents don't care if I log on to check email or school assignments, or even if I was just to look up random things on the servers and databases.<p>

In this case, it's not a matter of what, so much as who.

The living room is empty this early in the morning. The dull grey light highlights the framed pictures of my younger brother, Brody, and I. The furniture is nice but always too formal for Brody and I to play in, so it never became a family hot zone. There are other rooms, less formal that are hold actual memories for me, not just the man-made copies.

The only reason anyone comes into this room is because my parents store the computer here. The desk with our one lone computer sits in a corner. As if, it has done something bad.

I sit at the chair and pull the keyboard toward me. The screen takes a minute to fully light up and I log on to my school account. Sarran's icon blinks dully, a sign that even off in District Two she's awake. Five years ago, a super computer far away in another district, paired Sarran and I together as penpals. For one year, we were required to write letters about our respective districts to each other. The government's way of helping us become "One Panem."

I bypass her icon and log onto my school's messaging system. I delete the invitations to the school's open house, the last thing I want is my parents poking around my school life. There are some things I just want between me and my teachers. The last new message isn't from the school or any of my friends who go there.

With another quick look over my shoulder, I open the message. The screen is mostly blank, just one line.

I'll be there.

K

I hit the reply button, but my fingers still on the keyboard. Just like they do every morning. What do I say? Fine, okay, see you then? I'm not supposed to even be friends with this boy. Though I can hardly call him a friend, we just occupy the same space from time to time.

I met Kiernan in the woods, or maybe the meadow. I can never be sure what space we actually occupied together first. Every time I think I've nailed down the first time he snuck into a drawing I've done, I find an older one. I suppose only the trees and the sky know the full details of the first time he showed up in my life.

I venture out of town to draw. Something about being away from the constructed world to create something that is just for me. As a child my parents took Brody and me there to play. Now Brody would rather play a pick up game in the Seam than come with me. It's fine with me, I love him, but him being fourteen-year-old boy, I'm ready to put him up for adoption.

The meadow became the place where I could leave the world, with all its tabloids and questioning glances behind, in order to find me. No one likes to venture outside of town; so out in the meadow I can pretend I'm the only Ivy. My name sort of became the go to baby name after I was born. Product of famous parents.

It was only when looking back through my sketches that I noticed a boy. I only noticed him one day because his hair stuck out in the sea of green. Kiernan's hair is streaked with pale blue highlights—the product of his parents experiments with genetic mutations. I'd drawn him writing under a tree, or spread out in the field. He's been a part of it for as long as I can remember. But we never talked or even noticed each other, at least at first.

Kiernan liked the meadow but I think for different reasons. Kiernan is Capital. He'd always be Capital it's a stink he just can't wash off. We don't go to the same school, but I know he wouldn't fit in at my school. My friends tend to take after their parents in their continued hatred of all things Capitol. Kiernan with his blue streaked hair and pale skin would stick out in my world.

The first time he talked to me was to ask for a pencil. Early in the fall, I ventured out with a bag of spice cookies and a fresh pad of paper. I sat on a rock and flipped open the pad pulling out a pencil.

"Hey."

I nearly jumped out of my skin at the voice. He held an old leather bound book in one hand and a broken pencil in the other. "Sorry, I noticed you were drawing, do you have a pencil sharpener?"

"Um," I fumbled in my bag for the sharpener. "Here." I held out of the object.

"Thanks," he said taking the sharpener. He jammed the stub of his pencil into the objet and started turning it around.

"What are you doing out here?" I asked, afraid that the infiltration of my spot could be ruined by this boy.

He shrugged, handing me the pencil sharpener back. "Writing."

I nodded. "What are you writing about?" My mind had already gone to the possibilities that he was keeping track of my every move. My parents had taken every precaution when it came to me and my brother's safety, but you could never be too sure. I still wondered if half the things about me that got leaked to the press came from my "friends" at school.

"What are you doing?" he asked, avoiding the question.

"Drawing." It was hardly a secret that I had taken after my father in artistic skills.

"What are you drawing," he parroted back to me. I laughed, turning my notebook around for him to see. It was a landscape I'd already drawn a hundred times. He nodded appreciatively at the landscape I'd been constructing on the page.

I shoved my bag off the fallen log. He didn't take the hint. I patted the spot but he seemed rooted to the ground. He pushed his dark blond hair out of his eyes. He looked over his shoulder at his spot set up under a tree.

"Cookie?" If all else fails feed them, food will bring anyone out of their shell. He sat down and pulled one of the snacks out of the bag.

That's how it started. A snack between artists, but it soon became a ritual. I'd stop off at Dad's shop after school and snag something that isn't fit for sale and take it to the meadow. We'd sit in the tall grass until we each tired of our art. When that happened, we'd talk about school, friends, family, always the here and now. Kiernan doesn't like to talk about the future, because he doesn't think he has one. Most Capitol kids don't.

With the winter growing close, he asked if he could send me messages, just so I'd know when I needed to bring enough for two. No point in wasting food, if Kiernan just isn't going to show up.

I stare at the message he's left me, still unable to type a response.

It isn't some romantic idea of "the boy with the bread" his parents are from the Capitol, he'll be reaped just like all of the other kids like him. We don't go to the same school, we don't even talk to each other—publically.

So I don't reply. I delete the email, clear my trash folder, and completely wipe my history using a few codes I learned from Sarran. Because I can't risk anyone seeing the fact that not only do I know this boy, but we communicate.

I log off the computer. I leave the living room and wander into the kitchen. My brother sits at the table eating toast and staring out the window. Dad's already gone to work. Being a baker means early mornings, at least if you want the bread to rise in time. Mom walks in through the back door.

"Morning," she says, flicking through some mail. After almost thirty years, the mail system can still be sketchy. It's getting better, but there are always things the government needs to fix before they get around to the mail system.

Brody nods through a mouthful of toast.

I grab my bag from the chair where I left it last night and start to go through its contents. Books, pencils, paints, discs with all of my coding for my school project all just where I left it.

Mom holds up a letter. "I think this is for you," she says. "Nice to see you and your penpal, Sara still talk to each other."

I drop into a chair next to Brody and grab some toast from the plate in the middle of the table.

"I was so happy when I got to stop writing to mine," Brody says. The program only required students to write for a year. Once the year was up, they could continue or part ways.

"Well Sara and I happen to hit it off," I reply. "Plus, I like hearing about District Two."

My conversations with Sarran got a whole lot more interesting when she asked if she could stop lying. Like me, her parents were involved in the war, and didn't want their daughter bombarded with questions or shock her poor penpal into mute silence because her father was pseudo-famous. We both had fake names and it was only after she accidently sent me a message that I saw her real name. She apologized, and I confessed my own name. We both had a good laugh about it and our conversations took on a whole new level of depth. Finally, I had someone who knew what it felt like to grow up in the middle of the spot light.

I finished my breakfast and reached for my bag. "Mom, I'll be out late tonight."

"Where?" she asked looking over the rest of the mail.

"Studying with Ursa and some friends," I lie.

Brody scrunches up his face. "I thought you had—" I smack him with my bag to shut him up.

"Ivy," my mother warns looking up from the heavy envelopes she's holding. They come every year, and every year they go in the trash. Having them show up is just a reminder that the Games are coming again. The Hunger Games of old, no longer exist. There are no more elaborate arenas built as killing machines, but that does not mean the Games do not continue. Now the government reaps child of those who lived in the Capitol. Old tributes are always asked if they would like to be mentors, because the Capitol kids who do win are never in any shape to help others like them.

"Sorry Brody, no I don't have anything, I'm _studying_ tonight." I snatch Sarran's letter from the counter and head for the back door hoping Mom is still caught up in the packets to notice.

"Brody what is your sister really doing tonight?"

I freeze. Even the mentor packets won't push Mom's instincts to the side.

I give my brother a pleading look.

Mom looks between both of us, expecting an answer.

He stutters for words, but my mother's hardened stare breaks him. "She has a show at school tonight, for the open house, her design class..."

Mom dumps the packets in the trash and looks at me. "What time?"

I give her the time and mentally start reconstructing my project.

I do this all the way to school. Trying to figure out how I can turn the dress whose fabric reflects smoke and will change to flames when someone moves in it into something that won't bring up horrible memories for my parents.

Brody chases after me, as I walk out of the yard.

"Ivy, stop."

But I can't stop, because my mind is still trying to figure out this mess. I could turn off the fabric or possibly reprogram it. But the programming alone took me hours and I needed Sarran to sort out all of the kinetic codes that went into the garment. I'd never be able to wipe the dress and then reprogram it. Maybe I could pull the battery pack.

"IVY," Brody yells.

"What?" I whirl around.

"What was I supposed to do?" Brody stands in our yard his hands by his sides. He kicks at the ground.

"Keep your mouth shut," I snap.

He gives me a look that says:_ this is Mom we're talking about_. Getting anything past our parents once they think they know something, is impossible. That's why there are some things I just don't tell them.

"Look," I soften. If I'd been in the same position, I'm sure I'd have caved too. However, I don't have the time to stand and discuss it with my brother. "Can we save the argument for a later date?"

A sly grin creeps across his face. The number of arguments we've postponed could last a few years if we ever felt like acting them out.

"You aren't going to tell her about me going to the pick up games are you?" he asks falling in step with me.

"No."

My brother and I learned early on in our lives that our parents just didn't need to know certain things about our lives. They tried to keep our lives as private as they could and in turn, we kept secrets that if known might not sit well with them. Better to beg for forgiveness, I guess.

Brody has no aspirations playing sports for a living, as if such a thing existed, but he wants to go into the military. Playing against the kids at our school hardly sets him up for any real combat. Kids in the Seam play hard, tough, and sometimes dirty. He has a few friends there, but mostly he's there to play.

I design clothes that bring up memories of the past. My penpal happens to be the daughter of my mother's former best friend. And to top it all off, I'm friends with a boy whose parents are from the Capitol.

Keeping secrets is just a part of life here is District 12.


	2. Chapter 2

**Disclaimer: Not mine nope not at all, it's the brainchild of Suzanne Collins.**

**Amara-Thanks, I'm glad someone likes it. As for the story, I hope this chapter clears some stuff up... I think it does, well more so anyway. Thanks for the review!**

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><p>Brody and I part ways at the entrance of the school building. I head straight to the design shop, still trying to figure out my plan of action. The long tables march across the space, and this early in the day, they're clean. No scrapes of fabric, out of place rulers, or pieces of brown paper we use to construct patterns laying about.<p>

I dump my bag on the first table and walk to the far side of the room. My dress is exactly where I left it on the mannequin. Small curls of smoke drift up the fabric of the dress, a product of using fabric laced with small fiber optics lines.

I pull it back to my work space and hop up onto the table. I sit there, swinging my legs still trying to figure out what to do. I turn the mannequin around and start undoing the complicated hooks and catches that hold the dress together. The battery pack is small and I pull it free. The dress flickers and dies, the fabric turning a shared of pale mud and dotted with clear lines of the fiber optics.

I can't show this either.

Tossing the battery pack on the table, I pull the dress off the mannequin. I drown in the fabric and manage to dump it on the table next to me. If not this dress then what? I jump down from the table and go to my hook on the wall. I flick through the brown paper patterns looking for something that will be enough to show.

My parents know to look for my design, so I have to show something at the open house.

The door opens and Mrs. T walks in. Her bright blue hair is hidden as usual beneath a scarf that 's been wrapped and knotted around her head. In the Capitol she worked for a designer as a cutter/draper but she refuses to tell us who. We've guessed but either we've never guessed correctly or Mrs. T just refuses to tell us. She also happens to be Kiernan's mother.

"Having problems?" she asks.

I pull out another pattern. It's something I did late last year, but it might work.

"Sort of, I don't think it's ready for the Open House," I say.

Mrs. T pulls the dress straight on the table and starts to sift through it. She reconnects the battery and the gown sparks back to life. Smoke rises up the fabric and Mrs. T gives it a quick shake. It's as if someone blew on the embers of a fire. Flames leap up the dress.

"It works. Is there problems with the fit?"

I go quickly back to my table and pull the dress off the table and bundle it up.

"It's just not fit for human consumption yet," I say, shoving the dress under the table. My hands freeze and I realize I pulled out a line Kiernan always gives when I ask to read his writings.

I peek up over the table. Mrs. T looks at me like she's trying to find a lost piece to a puzzle, but doesn't say anything about the phrase belonging to her son.

"What are you thinking about showing then?"

I head to a cabinet next to the mannequins and pull it open. Rows of projects from the past several years stare me down. I wedge my arms in between two garments and shove them aside, creating a space where I can start sorting. I push myself to the side and find the black dress.

My hands clasp around the hanger of my dress and yank.

"I was thinking about this." I hold out the dress. It's black with a high collar and small cap sleeves. The project was supposed to be about learning how to do princess seam lines.

"It's less of a wow factor, but if it's what you want to show that's fine with me."

I slide the garment off the hanger and pull it over the dress form.

There's a knock at the door and Mrs. T goes to answer it.

She disappears into the hallway and doesn't come back. The warning bell rings and I duck down and rip the battery pack from the dress. I don't want anyone getting any ideas.

I sit through a day of classes watching people react to the approaching games. The new Games, we can't exactly call them "hunger games" because it's not about reminding the Districts about their loss, it's about reminding the Capitol of their parents' transgressions. But we don't talk about these new games. They get a measly paragraph at the bottom of my history book.

Some people get excited, they are the ones who don't care if people know they watch the games on late night television. Then there are people who start at the slightest movement, they're ashamed, but like most people they just can't let go of the Games. Of their hate.

I walk out of school and head straight for my father's shop.

I sneak in the back door, my father stands at a table his hands buried in bread dough. The funny thing about my father is that you would never know he knew the Games were coming. His hands fold and shape the dough with the same pace he always has.

I wouldn't have guessed he even considered watching the Games until last year.

My mother was gone—visiting some friends—and I had a paper due the next day. Call me the constant procrastinator. I went down to the kitchen to get a drink of water and noticed light in the next room.

My father sat on the couch still as stone his eyes fixated on the screen. A landscape of crumbling buildings and over grown military equipment filled the screen. Panam's anthem played softly.

From what I know, no one watches the Games publically anymore. The highlights are played late at night, no more real-time, death condensed down to a reel maybe two hours long. While the people of Panem may not admit it publicly, the watch the Games privately, and it's the public that keep it alive. The government tried to get rid of it several years ago—budgetary reasons—and people refused. The next election showed politicians just where the Games were supposed to stay.

I stood frozen in the doorway, unable to look away from the horror story on the screen. A boy raced across the screen, running for his life, pursued by a girl with death in her eye.

The glass slipped out of my hand when the girl tackled the boy smashing his head over and over into the cement. Blood sprayed the camera and made my stomach threaten its own version of rebellion. This was something out of a history book.

Dad flicked the television off instantly. I knew my father had been a player in the Hunger Games—twice—that he was tortured and brain washed, but why remind himself of it?

"Ivy?" I heard his voice from far away. This was my inheritance: covert blood baths.

"What is that?" I asked still horrified by what I saw. This complete lack of caring couldn't persist.

"Those are the Hunger Games."

I understood the concept, the history of it. But it had always remained on the page. Never before had I seen a complete lack of humanity.

I shook my head, trying to shake the images out. "That's what they look like?"

There were no pictures in books, nothing to suggest what the horror was really like. Videos had been classified. The government said they wanted a fresh start, but the violence somehow still persisted. The only explanation was a few words. Just words about how they stopped and started again.

Dad stood up, and stretched the late night taking its toll on his aging body. "Come on."

But I can't move, what I saw has permanently seared itself into my brain.

Having heard about it all my life, I thought I had been prepared for it. But the shock of seeing a girl beat another child's head against the sidewalk did not make sense to me. The Hunger Games, my parents played, were at least well equipped—bows, arrows, knives. The girl on screen had nothing but her bare hands and teeth to kill her victim. Any innocence she might have held washed away in the horror put before her.

"Ivy." He pulls me away back into the kitchen.

He sat me down at the counter and pulled out ingredients. He mixed and scrambled and drizzled until I finally broke out of my horror coma.

I shook myself and looked up at him.

"What's on your mind?" he asked dumping the last of his fixings into a bowl and slid it into the oven.

"I don't get it," I said, my voice sounding strange even to me. "How do you watch that?"

Dad stood his arms braced on the counter. "Sometimes you can't escape the past, if you can't escape you can't forget."

I nodded slowly trying to wrap my head around what he said.

"Any other questions?" He asks, just like he has for years. My parents didn't want to keep secrets from Brody or I. So every year when we get to the Hunger Games, they'd sit us down and ask that question.

"Will it ever stop?"

Ever since that night, I haven't asked my father about the Games. Here they are again, and like usual, I can't tell if he even notices.

"Anything left-over?" I ask, looking over what's left on the counters.

"Grab something fresh," Dad says motioning with his head toward the door to the main part of the bakery.

"Are you sure?" I ask already heading for the front.

"Absolutely, besides with your brother's new found hollow leg who knows when you'll get something fresh ever again?"

I laugh and duck into the front, going straight for my favorite spice cookies.

It doesn't take me long to grab the snack and get out of town. But the meadow is empty when I get there. I walk to my favorite spot, assuming that Kiernan is just late. Sometimes, even when he said he'd be here, it took him awhile to get free. With two younger siblings, he often had to play babysitter.

Waiting for me in the shade of the trees was a book. It was covered in pale blue leather, I had purchased it for Kiernan for his birthday. He'd been buying cheap notebooks barely filled with paper. I had seen the book in a shop, filled with at least a two hundred sheets of fine quality paper and knew it would be perfect.

Under the straps, wrapped around the book to hold it together, rests a letter. What I thought was one letter is actually two. The first simply reads: _Just for Ivy's consumption._

I hesitantly unfold the second and am greeted by possibly the worst sentence I have ever read: _It is my duty, to inform you, Mr. Kiernan R. Trilall, that you have been selected as a player in this year's Games..._

I wait in line. I'm not sure how I got back to town, or what happened to my bag. Evening gathers, people leave work stopping at the bakery on their way home. Perhaps, they want bread for dinner, or perhaps cookies for dessert. Either way, the line is long and slow at my father's shop. A few friends from school wave at me, and it feels so strange to wave back. I force my hand to perform the motion.

I know I could cut, use the back entrance and have this conversation in the warmth of the kitchen. Escape my friends who expect me to talk and smile like nothing is wrong. Perhaps if I wasn't so worried about what my friends thought or what my parents would think I would have told them about Kiernan. It's not exactly proper to bring home a boy born from Capital parents when your parents were revolutionaries. And not just revolutionaries, but _the_ revolutionaries.

The line moves forward, I've come back into town, still trying to put everything straight. The answer still burns in mind and is possibly the reason I'm here waiting in line and not going to my mother who is home. Because my mother thought it was best, these stupid this continue, that the horrible mixture of death and destruction was just what the world needed. I've read the politics on the new Games. How the Districts can't let go, can't move on. How what was supposed to be one has turned into almost thirty Games.

I need this to be fixed.

I step up to the counter and lay the white letter on the smooth surface, pulling my hands away as if it might burn me. Dad looks from the letter to me not understanding what I want.

"Ivs?" Dad asks looking at me, I can feel his concern. I look down focused on the letter, not meeting his eyes. The boy I met in the field that day, who writes down his thoughts cannot become like that girl on the television.

"You have to fix this," I say quietly. I didn't think of how to ask my father to do this. Dad has always been the one to fix things, to put things to right and if anyone can stop the Games from taking Kiernan, it's Dad. "Please I won't ask you for anything else, but please fix this."

Dad picks up the letter and unfolds it. He motions for one of his workers to take over and steps to the side. I can feel people looking at me. It's not that unusual when your parents are famous. Actually then it's quite a normal occurrence, people starring, taking photos, wanting to be just a smidge closer to something they think matters.

This time though they stare because I'm out of character. I feel like I've fallen down a hole and the only part of the sky I can see is clouded with ash. There's nothing but me, the tight walls, and the small polluted patch of sky.

My father could pull me out all he has to do is fix this.

"Ivy, I can't." He holds out the letter.

"But you have to know someone in politics get his name off the list, stop it. You won't have to do anything for me for the rest—I won't ask for anything else ever, but please, Dad."

He walks out from behind the counter, flour staining his clothing. He leaves the letter on the counter and hugs me close. When he speaks his voice is quiet almost a whisper. "Ivy I am sorry but I can't change this, trust me I have tried, and your mother—"

But I walk out, because I can't hear it anymore. I don't want to hear how my parents can't fix this mess. I turn to go home, but the thought of facing my mother stops me in my tracks. I take the road left to school.

It's lit up for the Open House. When I get inside, teachers walk to and fro prepping for the night's festivities. I walk to the shop without even thinking.

Ursa is already there putting the finishing touches on her dress. She gives me a wide smile. We've been "friends" since grade school, but I stopped confiding in her when we still in grade school. She's nice enough, just a little too much for me.

"I'm so happy Mrs. T wont' be in tonight," she says, pinning the rendering of her dress to the form. "Her son was selected one less Capitol person. The world feels better already."

I look at her and she backs up. There's a part of me that wants to beat her head into the cement—I guess I know where the Game players get it now.

"I'll just—" she backs towards the door and then flees.

I'm still numb. The phone on Mrs. T's desk catches my eye. I glance around and quickly snatch it up and dial the only person I can think of to call.

"Hawthorne mortuary, you stab 'em we slab 'em," Sarran's voice trickles down the line. "What's your body count?"

"Sarran?" I ask.

"Sorry, Ivy—one too many phone calls from the higher ups this week. Call it small victories. And what have I told you about secure lines woman? What if my parental units picked up, what would you say then? Please the next time, ask and I'll give you all the codes and proper channels so we don't get traced back."

"I'm sorry," I say.

The line is quiet for a few minutes.

"Okay what's up?" Sarran asks. "This is about that Capitol boy isn't it?"

"Sarran—"

"I told you to be up front with your parents about it. I know you said it's not anything but really Ivy they were going to find out you were doing a lot more in that meadow than painting pretty pictures—"

"He was reaped," I blurt out.

Sarran's end of the phone goes quiet. She's been all about talking me out of seeing Kiernan, because we both knew this could happen. Once I used a code Sarran gave me to look up the odds of a Capitol child being killed in the Games: one in four. Kiernan has three younger siblings. He wasn't wrong when he said he didn't have much of a future.

"No, no no no no no," Sarran says as if she is anticipating my question. "If I do that I'm dead as in, I will be six feet under for acts of treason. My father has made it clear, nothing is off limits but that. The one thing I can't do is touch the list."

"I can't sit and do nothing."

"That's exactly what you can do. He's just a boy Ivy. Do you even know him that well? Besides you can't exactly do anything for him, you can't volunteer, you can't change a law, and you can't make people care."

I look across the room at my dress. The rendering attached to it catches my eye. I've learned enough about design that people follow what they see as flashy. If you can get their attention you can change their perception. "Yes, I can."

"Yes what? You're going to lay off this?"

"I want you to enter my name in the design pool."


End file.
